“Siblings are dreadful things,” he said, low and distant, “until you don’t have them anymore.”
Her scoff broke the tension. “That’s horribly accurate.”
Ashterion tied off the braid at the end, letting it fall down her back. Not his finest work, but it would do.
He guided her to the cushioned chair by the table, one hand light on her back. A flick of his fingers summoned steam from nowhere, stew thick with root vegetables and herbs, a warm crust of bread, and a chilled mug of dark ale.
“Eat.” He meant to sound cold. He didn’t succeed. “I’ll change.”
Isara sat, blinking at the food like it might vanish if she stared too hard. Then, for the first time since he’d lifted her from the bath, she really looked at him.
“Why are you soaking wet?”
Ashterion froze mid-step.
He didn’t look down. His tunic clung to his chest, his pants dripped steadily, and his hair was wet, curling at the ends.
“I…” he hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I fell in the bath.”
Silence.
Isara frowned. Hard.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion so sharp it could’ve sliced through bone.
“You… fell?”
“It happens.”
“Does it?”
Ashterion stared at her.
She stared right back, spoon halfway to the bowl.
But then she scooped some food into her mouth.
Thank the fucking stars.
Ashterion sighed, rubbing a hand over his face as he stalked toward his dresser. He tugged out dry clothes, slipping behind the half-unfurled privacy screen, stripping off his soaked tunic and pants.
The damp fabric hit the floor with a wetthumpas he dressed quickly, pulling on fresh pants and a loose, dark shirt.
When he emerged, she had eatenhalfthe bowl.
A quiet satisfaction settled in his chest that he refused to examine too closely. He moved to his desk, arranging papers with deliberate nonchalance, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of an hour bathing and dressing a human who had, until recently, been little more than a thorn in his side.
A thorn that had somehow worked its way deeper than he’d anticipated.
Because something had changed tonight, upsetting the balance he’d maintained for centuries. The walls he’d built, the persona he’d crafted, the calculated indifference he’d perfected… all of it felt suddenly flimsy.
He had bathed her.
Dressed her.
Braided her fucking hair.
His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms. What had possessed him? What strange, forgotten instinct had driven him to such… softness? What possible reason could he have for treating her with such care?
